Storm Maker [The Dawn of Ireland 1] Page 21

  “Did you save the tail, Magpie?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then may I have it? For I think I will pin it around the top…ah, in anticipation of the very cold weather.” She and Brigid laughed. Seizing the soft, bushy foxtail, I tucked it in my bodice, feeling a little less exposed. Magpie searched in a small pouch and brought out a garnet brooch for me, and I used it to pin the tail to my tunic bodice.

  I took the other clothing she had given me and folded it all, along with my old tunic and sandals, into a small coverlet. I rolled it, and then I tied it behind Macha’s saddle. “Is your father nearby?” I asked Magpie as I was about to mount my mare.

  “Only as close as your riding boot.” I turned around and saw Jay Feather, regarding me and Brigid with his sky-blue eyes.

  “Jay! I have come to introduce my friend Brigid.”

  “Then come to my enclave, ladies, where we may meet each other over a cup of sun-petal tea.”

  Ten minutes later, introductions over, Brigid and I sat with Jay, admiring the progress of the new enclave. This cavern, unlike the old one, did not boast an underground spring that would send its bubbling, splashing sounds echoing off the earthen-and-stone walls. When I mentioned it, Jay said, “The spring is still to be made. We know how to bring it to the surface, but we will wait until the side rooms have been completed.”

  When he said “we,” Jay meant the entire enclave—he and his wife Finch, their two unmarried daughters, plus Magpie and Raven, and the rest of his children and grandchildren—at least thirty of the little ones by the last count. And beyond the immediate family were his brother Crowe and various uncles, aunts, and cousins I had never met. All together, they formed the large group known as the Feather clan of dwarves.

  What caught and held the eye in all the dwarf enclaves were the tree roots that had been left to continue their sinuous growth all the way into the floor, and deeply beyond. Jay’s roots were unlike those of any other, for his bauble-collecting daughter Magpie had festooned them with small glittering gems of all kinds, found during the tunnel excavations and polished for eyes to admire. The candle sconces on the walls threw light off the glittering jewels, and the entire enclave sparkled and danced.

  “Jay,” I said, suddenly serious and thoughtful. “Have you been able to recapture any of the old, ah, enchantment from Faerie?” I knew not what made me ask, but just then I felt a strange stirring in my stomach.

  “I have told you, lass, that I am not magic—only magical. Magic seems to accrue to me. For instance, I have made fast friends of the local birds. We have long, soul-searching conversations quite often. But that is not magic. That is normal for my clan, for we—”

  “Yes, I know, my friend. You are all descended from the great Bird Feather nation. I am glad that the association is still close all this long, far way from your ancestral home Tell me, Jay, can you still perform the magical Walk here in Éire?”

  Walking Between Worlds was a feat that all dwarves could perform, and Jay was better at it than most. Back in the now-ruined realm of Faerie, the Walk meant that one could go from the land of magic to the world of mortals in mere minutes, like walking from one house into another.

  “First, Cay, I have found that the old ways of Faerie have faded from this mortal world. This beautiful place is magical—just as I am—but the magic is draining out of the land. I have a love for Patrick, but I can sense that the priest himself is draining the magic of the ancients and infusing his own kind of magic, the miracle of the Christian god. I can use the pure spirit of ancient Éire to help, and I hope it will last until we can learn to cope by ourselves.

  “I have also found,” he said slowly, “that the Walk is similar, but different in some regards. There are no two parallel places, so to speak, in our new homeland. No land of magic. So the Walk is one that goes from one location to the next, guided by the eyes of the birds themselves, while the enchantment lasts…who knows how long?”

  “So your new way of walking is similar to the Owl Sight.”

  “Yes, my friend. Exactly. The birds furnish their eyes, and share their language, as I travel. Unlike using Owl Sight, I can travel any time, night or day, without my feathered kin grumbling about being sleepy or hungry. But I prefer the owls, for their eyes turn in their head like our own, and their vision is almost like ours.”

  I saw that Brigid was absolutely captivated by our conversation. “What think you, Bree?” I asked. “Is all this talk confusing?”

  “Of course, the people in Britannia talked about the land of Faerie,” she said. “And even of dwarves and gnomes and others. But their discourse was largely playful, and often even cruel. I thought of the playful talk as ‘fairy tales,’ and the cruel references as cautionary tales for children.”

  I knew exactly what she was talking about. My own youth was full of fanciful tales about fairy princesses and sprightly elves and of ugly, grotesque dwarves and gnomes who would come in the night to carry me away if I did not behave.

  It was time to go. Brigid and I bade farewell to Jay with a promise to visit much more often, and we rode almost leisurely to the building construction site along the river. As we pulled up I did not see Angus, nor any sight of Liam. I walked to the new teach where I saw Ryan and Michael each laboring with a thigh-high stack of fresh, stiff thatch, weaving it onto the partly finished roof.

  “Dia duit,” I said. “Have you seen Liam?”

  “I have not, Caylith,” said Michael, drawing Brigid close to him and stroking her cheeks.

  “We thought he was with you lass,” said Ryan.

  My heart began to race just a little. It was not like Liam to desert his friends or to do anything unusual without letting someone know.

  “I will just stop by the bally trench and check with Glaedwine,” I told them, and I remounted Macha. “Carry on. I will see you soon.”

  I tried to ride slowly, but I felt a small, rising panic, and I thrust my knees into Macha’s side, urging her to a gallop. I saw Glaed from a distance, for his bulk was unmistakable. But I did not see Liam. Pulling Macha to a dirt-whirling stop, I called to Glaed, “Do you know where Liam is?”

  He paused in his work and raised his arm to shield his eyes from the midday sun. “Nay, lass. These past few days he has been devoting his time to the new houses for his kinsmen. I would think that is where he is now.”

  I jumped from Macha’s back. A bitterness had risen into my throat, and it felt closed up, as though a choking hand were cutting off the air. I took a few moments to slow my breathing and to swallow several times, until I could speak.

  “Glaed. Listen closely. I think Liam is—has been taken. He may be…he is probably hurt. I will ride to the monk Galen, just in case. But the worst…I fear the worst has happened. Get word to the Keepers right away and to Ryan and Michael. I will join all of you—and Gristle, too, please go to him—I will join all of you…later, on the road. I will find you. Please tell Ryan to set up smoke talk and try to discover who has taken Liam.” I tried to slow my speech and talk reasonably, planning ahead without knowing what to say.

  “Where will you go, Caylith?”

  “Believe it or not, Glaed, I may be going to the royal bally at Tara, and back again, by the time the sun sets tonight. You know of the magical Walk.”

  “Yes,” he said, “now I understand. You will speak to the High King.”

  “I think someone is holding Liam like a hostage—oh, holding him, Glaed, in exchange for—what? For money? For our very lands, I think. And the king is the only one who can make such a grant. Oh, Glaed, I think he is—Liam may be in grave danger. Farewell, for I must fly like the very swans of Ravenscar.”

  I seized the pommel of my saddle and was seated and galloping through the heath in one motion. The church was a few miles upriver, and I reached it quickly enough, tumbling off Macha and running into the church. I saw Galen’s large frame near the altar, where he was cleaning the tall floor sconces, and I ran to his side. “Brother Galen. Have you seen Lia
m?”

  He straightened and looked at me with a strange light in his eyes. “This morning, for the first time, Liam did not come to me. He is missing, is he?” The monk looked at me, and the answer was obvious in my face. “Dear God. He is in trouble.”

  Galen stopped and threw his polishing cloth to the floor in frustration and anger. “I blame meself, for I should have known. He was following the gospels as if it were a story taking place in the present, and Christ himself were walking to Golgotha as if—as if it were the hill outside this church. He would not willingly miss the next lesson. I should have set up an alarm.”

  He buried his face in his hands, and I fell to my knees. “Please, please,” I prayed before the altar of our humble church. “Let Liam be safe.” I was not sure who I was praying to, for I had always thought that the Lord had better things to do than hear my juvenile pleading. The last time I prayed, I had directed my words to Father Patrick, for he would know how to ask the Lord on my behalf. “Please, Father Patrick, tell the Lord that his new son is missing and to keep him safe.”

  I got to my feet. “Brother,” I said. “Do not blame yourself. You had no way of knowing. I am on my way now. I promise you—I will find him, and I will bring him home.”

  I ran from the church and leapt astride Macha, turning her toward home. First I would gather my weapons, and then I would seek Jay Feather. I did not have the same confidence inside as I had expressed to the monk, for I had no idea who had taken Liam or what direction they had gone.

  When I arrived at my teach, I stood inside the door trying to control my ragged breath. I was almost paralyzed with a fear that crept from my stomach to my arms and legs, and I could hardly stand on my own. I walked toward my little bunch of weapons leaning against the wall, and my hand went to Liam’s shillelagh, glowing darkly next to my own.

  I would use my own magic to talk with Liam.

  I knelt, holding the burnished, knobby piece of blackthorn, almost feeling Liam’s warm hand on the swollen hand grip. I lowered my head and willed my heaving chest to slow its breathing, slow, slower, until a calmness descended from my mind to my heart and deep into my stomach.

  I let the moment itself dissipate like water spreading itself on a flat rock, until the very flatness caused it to turn into vapor and disappear into the air. This moment was no time, and this house was no place. My breath was nonexistent. But my hand on the shillelagh was Liam’s own hand, and I saw it clenched. And then I saw his arms. They were bound with harsh ropes, and his muscles were straining against the tarred cord, twisting and bunching in pain.

  His legs—my own legs—were bent and bound behind me. My mind felt numbed, as if drugged with an opiate, and I could barely see my opponent. But I heard his voice, coming closer and closer. It was cold and harsh, crisp and articulate. “I will have my revenge. And I am in no hurry at all.”

  And then the body itself rose before me—really half a body. I saw the dark, sleek hair and hollow, pale face of Owen Sweeney. I saw his huge arms and chest, but the rest of his body was a twisted lump beneath a dark blanket. And he was rolling closer and closer, using his massive, bulging arms on the wheels to roll his invalid’s chair over Liam’s still body again and again and again.

  I heard a high, anguished scream that seemed to hang in the air for long moments, and then I heard it again. It took me a long time to realize that the voice was my own.

  PART III:

  Riding out the Storm

  Chapter 21:

  Talon and Claw

  I woke slowly from the vision of Owen Sweeney. I was kneeling, and bitter tears burned my face and closed my throat. It took two or three minutes for me to realize that Sweeney was not here, and that Liam could not be dead. Not yet ready to stand, I clutched Liam’s shillelagh and tried to think about the frightening images I had just seen.

  So the murderer Sweeney was somehow still alive, and his men had seized Liam. The plot was suddenly clear to me. The violent clansman wanted Liam for one purpose only—as an exchange for his old ancestral lands. King Leary was the only one who could take away, or indeed regrant, all that Sweeney owned. And Liam, the king’s favorite son, was his key to reclaiming what he had lost. So Sweeney would be foolish to kill him. But he certainly would not hesitate to hurt him, perhaps grievously.

  My first urge had been to rush to King Leary, and I tried to think that through also. I could go there quickly with Jay. But how would I speak with him, not knowing his language? How would I combat Loch and Lucet, his druid counselors, who were already threatened by my reputation as a healer? And what could I say that would stop the despairing king from proclaiming all my own holdings now void in exchange for keeping his son alive?

  I stood up. No matter what happened at Tara, I would be foolish not to go. I would find a way, I told myself over and over. I would find a way to convince King Leary to delay his actions until Liam could be rescued. I reasoned that Sweeney’s men would not yet have gained the king’s ear, for it was at least six days’ hard ride from here, but I had little time to delay.

  I found myself still holding the burnished cudgel, and I let my mind and breathing concentrate on the only man who had ever held it. Where had he gone? I saw my beloved Liam in my imagination, riding to the church to meet Brother Galen. His thoughts would perhaps be full of the passion of Christ, for the monk had told me they were talking about the walk to Golgotha. If two or three riders caught up to him and began to speak and distract him, it would be natural for Liam to respond in a friendly way while one of them hit him from behind. I thought it would take at least three to subdue him. One of them would ride immediately for Tara while the other two took him—where?

  They would have to tie at least his hands, and someone would have to set him on the front of Angus’s saddle. If anyone should stop and question them, it would be natural to say that Liam had drunk a bit too much the night before. Once they had ridden from the main settlement, they could lay him across the saddle and let the horses ride like the wind until they thought they were safe from curious eyes.

  Time was running out. And yet I took an extra few minutes, while my concentration was riveted on my vision, to imagine Owen Sweeney and where he would be.

  I had found Sweeney to be a man of intellect and cunning. While he seemed to have no regard at all for those around him—for he had killed his own wife and reviled his mother—he was very careful about his own well-being. The king had sentenced him to certain death, having him tied into his own invalid’s chair and set into the indifferent sea. And yet he had somehow escaped his bonds. He would not have sought unfamiliar land, I thought. The most logical hiding place would be the remote northern promontory, as yet unnamed. It was part of my new domain, not much settled or even traveled, and I never sought nor expected tribute from the few clans who lived there.

  I had not been there, but I had seen it through the eyes of cattle baron Ryan Murphy. About thirty or so miles from Derry to its farthest point, the “thumb” that jutted into the Sea of Éire, much of the peninsula was wild and desolate. And yet it held both large tracts of mountain pasture for grazing and hilly, grassy slopes for raising sheep and goats. Ryan had told me that much of the seacoast was rocky, even inhospitable—the perfect hiding place for a murderer shunning the eyes of men.

  I decided on the spot that Sweeney was holed up on the peninsula, almost as far to the north as possible. I absently pushed Liam’s shillelagh through my tunic belt. Before I left the teach, I seized my pouch of healing powder and my long knife in its leather sheath. After securing both to my belt, I ran outside and mounted Macha. Soon we were almost a blur, horse and rider straining into the wind, seeking the enclaves of my magical friend Jay Feather.

  * * * *

  “Caylith, you must meet the birds who will guide us.” Jay was giving me last-minute instructions on our enchanted Walk. “They will travel on my shoulders, they will be my very eyes. But when we reach the halls of Tara, they will sit on your own shoulders. It is fortunate that your
fox-hide tunic will afford them a firm claw hold.”

  I winced at the thought of sharp, grasping bird talons biting into my skin, even through the pelt.

  Jay pushed his mouth into a small O and began to warble and call. At once, a pair of dark birds lit on his shoulders. He stroked the claws of one large, darkly shining creature I thought was a crow or raven, and it hopped onto his forearm. Lifting its head, its bright eyes glittering, it clearly told him, “Aawwk.”

  “This is Talon. Prince among ravens, Caylith, a rare bird indeed.” He spoke with trills and squawks to the bird, who answered in kind. “Talon greets you and wishes you a fast journey. Once in the king’s presence he will do as you direct him, through me.”

  The other bird was a flash of dark purple on black on blue, its feather colors shifting as it roused and talked. “And this is Claw. She is a magpie, like my own darling girl, also a lover of bright baubles. You have but to utter a word or two to me, and her own sooth-telling powers will translate your speech into action.”

  “Jay,” I asked, “does any other member of your family talk so easily to the birds?”

  “Magpie, of course,” he replied. “Also Crowe and Raven.”

  “Then before we leave, please gather some of your feathered kin and ask them to trace the path of Liam and his captors. North, I think, to the peninsula. Tell them to look for two or three riders and one man—probably wounded—lying or sitting bound on a bay gelding. When they have discovered where he is, have them return and tell Magpie. She will then tell my people, and they can start riding to Liam right away. I will join them when I return. Already Sweeney’s lick spittles have at least a four-hour advantage.”

  “But then you yourself will be several hours behind, dear Cay. How are you to catch up to your own people?”